Winter's Tale
by bkwrmnlvnit
Summary: Outside, a rose is blooming. A quick look into Beast's thoughts during his time with Belle. Written for The Hostile Takeover's 'Twisted Theme' challenge.


**Hey y'all! This is completely unbeta-ed and barely proofread, so I'm sure when I'm coherent and try to reread this I'll be cringeing at the number of typos I find, but this idea floated into my head a bit ago and I had to write it. It's mostly a character study sort of thing, but it's also halfway supposed to be a random Important Moment in the Beast trying to sort through some thoughts with Belle, and was also written for The Hostile Takeover's Twisted Theme challenge. Stunningly enough, I was actually able to find something hopeful to write about, and I didn't turn it into angst or a novel-length story. I'm so proud of myself.**

 **Anyway, hope you enjoy the story! It's primarily based of the 2017 reboot, but also fits into the 1991 story pretty smoothly.**

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The winter air seeps through the windows and into the elaborately tiled floor as the library door slides shut behind him with a heavy thud. Beast's claws scrape soft against the marble, but he barely hears the noise, his ears instead tuned to Belle's soft exhales of breath as they drift from the couch. He can tell from the even rhythm of it that she's sleeping, and he frowns vaguely at the thought. She's at peace in this desolate place somehow, more peaceful than he ever was even before the Enchantress had come to call, and he's not quite sure what to make of it.

The sky outside casts greying light in slants across the ground, making shadows curl at odd angles over the edge of chair. They stretch as he approaches, but as soon as Belle's face comes into view, he stops paying attention to them, his mind wandering elsewhere, fixating on the strands of hair that have fallen into her face and the dark smudge of her eyelashes against her cheeks and the tiny furrow between her eyebrows, as if she's concentrating. There's something about the sight that stops him, but he quickly forces away the thought, mentally cursing himself. It's one thing for some fool in fair Verona to fall for someone he cannot have, but he's well aware that he's in a different story, and Belle, for however much she may love that ridiculous play, is not Juliet. Not that he finds that to be a bad thing, considering how things ended for her. He thinks of Belle arguing with him in the West Wing, of the offended light that flashes in her eyes when she quips back at him, and thinks she's far too smart and far too skilled with communication to entrust her hopes for her future to good luck, a lack of plague, and a priest, of all things.

He shakes away the thought, tells himself it doesn't matter. For all that she is brave and smart and so very, _very_ vocal, he can tell just by looking at her that she's also cold. Her legs are tucked beneath her in a way that makes her look like she's trying to bundle into herself, her head pillowed on arms prickled like gooseflesh from the chill in the air. He casts a look at the fireplace and a frown tugs at his mouth. It's no wonder she's cold, when the only source of heat in the room is full of wood covered in a coat of ashes as fine as the snow outside and looking like it burned out hours ago, if it was ever lit at all. He wishes, not for the first time, that he had human hands, if nothing else. It's hard enough to eat with hands as big as a bowl, never mind trying to do something as delicate as lighting a fire.

Thankfully, there are alternatives. His claws still clicking on the ground, he slips from the room in search of blankets. Most of them haven't been used in years, not since he stopped needing down feathers to feel warm and the servants stopped feeling anything at all besides the rusty joints Lumiere sometimes joked about, but they still smell fresh, much to his surprise. He supposes that's Plumette's doing, and probably Mrs Potts too, somehow. For being trapped as a teapot, she manages the most impossible things sometimes. Whatever the reason, he's grateful for it as he pulls the sheets from some forgotten room and does his best to not rip them open with his nails in the process. _If I were human,_ he thinks again, and silences the thought before it gets a chance to properly start.

He's feeling quite proud of himself by the time he re-enters the library – four blankets, and not a single tear, though the one pillow he accidentally caught may be a lost cause – but the pride fades away as soon as he sees the fire glowing in the fireplace where minutes before, there had only been ashes. _Lumiere,_ he thinks, and isn't sure why he's surprised. Even as a candelabra, he's stunningly adept at predicting the needs of others and fulfilling them with style, and it's obvious that in the few minutes of Beast's absence, that's exactly what he's done. Quite suddenly the pile of blankets feels rather pointless in his arms, since he's trying to heat her up, not melt her until she boils, but as Beast steps forward and studies her again, he can't quite be bitter about it. She looks more comfortable now, warmer, perhaps happier too. It's not an expression that fits in well here, but he's happy for it nonetheless.

In the back of his head, he hears Lumiere's voice, hushed in theatric whispers. _What if she is the one? The one who will break the spell._ As he sits the pile of blankets down on the chair across from Belle to avoid disturbing her, he chews on the thought almost idly. He thinks of having human hands that could hold forks and start fires again, thinks of being small enough to look Belle in the eye without her having to tilt her head back and lift her eyes just to see his face, of walking on tiles without his claws clicking and gouging into them. _Foolish,_ he tells himself, but even as he leaves the room and the fire within it, the thought lingers, incessant, a sparrow in his chest trying to take wing.

He passes by a window and pauses, staring at a sight that's both familiar and new all at once.

Outside, a rose is blooming.


End file.
